Dreams

So last night's dream revolved around a flute that I found on a shelf in a case with no lid in a junk store. It was hallmarked, and when I asked the owner of the shop when it was made, he replied "around 1610", which is, as everyone knows, some 75 years before Bach was born. It cost £2000. Not a bad price, but then flutes and woodwind in general do depreciate in value as the years go by, unlike strings. Plus, it's worth pointing out that an entirely silver flute in those days was unheard of, so perhaps the shop-owner was exaggerating slightly.

This was the result of the first decent night's sleep I've had, after a nasty bout of food-poisoning the night before. A bad oyster, we figured, because the assembled throng had shared literally every plate of food. Bad luck, Sundance. Me and the toilet bowl had an extended, if intermittent, series of conversations that long and difficult night.

Meanwhile, my ipod touch is not connecting to the internet. A cursory google-glance reveals I'm not alone. Back to the macstore to get it diagnosed...

Far Flung

So this is the last night in the Uk for a while, folks, for tomorrow afternoon I take a plane to the West Coast of the U.S.ofA., where I have been summoned to say goodbye to an old house and hello to a new one. I'm taking a bedspread that I made myself from Chinese silk - one side a slubbed brown with rusty dragons, the other a lurid green with red and gold dragons - as a , plus flowers made of sugared almonds for the kids. And - of course - the Stephanie Dosen album which, if you haven't heard, you really ought to...

Meanwhile I went to the theatre last night to see what the other half's been working on for the past month, and it's going to be great. No question. Opening night is after my return so I'm essentially leaving the country to allow them to get their previews out of the way, and then shall join them in cracking open the champagne. Only fair, right?

I shall leave you in the capable hands of Ms Dosen, who I saw giving a marvellous performance at the Wilton's Music Hall a few weeks back. Stunning.

Arrival

Readers, relax. After much procrastination and general naysaying, the Sundance God has finally arrived in Blogworld. And it is no coincidence that the title of this cherry-popping post is also the title of a cracking album by the Swedish gods of rock. Arrival indeed.

So to bring you all up to date, at least within reason:

Last night saw the Sundance God helping charge up a cracking tab at THE original gastro-public house, receiving guests and presents with equal grace and poise in order to celebrate some sort of [only minorly significant] birthday before INSISTING that certain guests headed south in order to continue the bonfires, throwing shapes in a thespian bar with eg Mistress Marmalade and, crucially and potentially controversially, monitoring the post-midnight alcohol intake of one Lady Vestibule. This involved handing her Tonic and calling it Gin. Lemon Squeezy.

My boisson de la nuit was [dark, natch] rum and coke, which is MARVELLOUS whilst out and about, and AWFUL once in bed, and which I blame wholeheartedly for a number of disconcerting dreams, not least one premonition of what this week's workshop may well be like ["Back down, Sundance: this week is to facilitate OUR process, not YOURS"], coupled with difficult feelings of guilts regarding the running up of aforementioned tab [telephonic chat with Lady V reassured me that everyone knows what those sorts of evenings cost so not to worry my pretty, though ageing, little head about THAT].

Now in order to appease both mind and body of pre- and post-anxieties &c, it's all superfoods. Avocado is on multi-everything bagels, BeroccaTM and Mariage Freres Montagne de Jade Vert. It's luxury, luxury, luxury in the Sundance pad.

Shortly, no doubt, me and the Mister will shower and do something suitable relaxing on our last Sunday before he GOES once more, though this time, mercifully, only for a week at a time, and only to the South Coast. Plus, I shall at some point cast my eyes one more over the text-on-which-the-workshop-that-is-about-THEIR-process-not-MINE is based, listen to the accompanying CD of Andrew Preview's score, and panic at treading the path of Larry &c.

Shoulders of Giants, and all that.

Laters, Readers.